Tenderly, lovingly, pretty Mrs. Thorpe touches and caresses the little stranger, saying half hesitatingly, “we will care for her tonight, Charles, and tomorrow we must make an effort to find her parents; or if they cannot be found, perhaps the matron of the orphans’ home would take her; she seems so unusually interesting, that I should like to be sure she is well cared for, if no one is to claim her.” “Claim her!” impatiently interrupts Mr. Thorpe; “You talk like a woman! As if any one ever claimed what they were glad to be rid of.” “But,”—his voice softening a little as he spoke, for in spite of himself the remembrance of the unknown woman under the street-lamp, and her mute appeal to him for sympathy and help, clings to him; and for once, without arriving at his conclusion by a careful method of reasoning, very unlike his usual self, he in some strange, undefined way, closely associates in his mind the memory of this woman, and the presence of the little stranger in his home— “But, Mary, you might as well keep the child; she seems as well disposed as such afflictions usually are, and although I don’t approve of babies, and therefore wash my hands of the whole affair, still it might be a good thing for you; the vacant place in the household, you know, will at last be filled.” Still later, after Mrs. Thorpe had succeeded in coaxing the smiles to chase away the tears, and to play hide and seek among the convenient dimples in the baby’s cheeks and chin, she ventures the question, “What shall we call her?” for of course every baby must have a name. “Call her March; it would be quite apropos,” suggests her husband quickly. “Yes, but,” said Mrs. Thorpe, “it seems almost like an evil omen to give her such a dreary, cheerless name.” “Nonsense, my love,” returns Mr. Thorpe, “What’s in a name?” And so it is settled, and baby March henceforth becomes an important member of the Thorpe household. If I were giving a sermon, instead of attempting to write a story, I should here remark that Mrs. Thorpe was of the type of women that many men most desire for a wife—pretty, gentle, submissive, yielding, and for the good of the human race in general. I would urge the fair sex to fashion themselves in an entirely different mould; and, whether matron or maid, to stand firm and self-reliant in their own true womanhood; for, although these shy, helpless, clinging ways may seem to the masterful lover the very embodiment of womanly grace, yet they only tend to make the one selfish and arrogant, and the other abject and unwomanly. But as such is not my purpose, I shall leave all this unsaid, and proceed at once with the story.